


Say Something Real

by wastelandfrenzy



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Arcadia Bay, Blackwell Academy, Depression, Dissociation, Drug Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, No Storm in Arcadia Bay, POV Max, POV Nathan, Pen Pals, Quickly Paced, Recreational Drug Use, Repressed Memories, Snapshots, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, more like anonymously exchanged messages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-05 19:40:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15870399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wastelandfrenzy/pseuds/wastelandfrenzy
Summary: Nathan Prescott isn't quite sure who's been anonymously responding to his messages, but they're the one thing he's holding on to during his nightmare of a senior year. The only certainty he can claim is that everything's going to change.Inspired by this prompt: (by tumblr user mathancaulscott)"Imagine Max and Nathan mailing back and forth as pen-pals, except they're unaware of the other's real identity until Max accidentally drops a present that Nathan mailed to her in front of him."





	1. August

**Author's Note:**

> this was meant to be a one-shot based off a tumblr prompt, and big surprise, it turned into something different than I intended and I had to split it up into 3 parts for the sake of flow. Seriously, this is my hundredth serious attempt at a one-shot and it's official: i can't write them. idk how you all do it, you're amazing.
> 
> anyway this was the original inspiration for this: (by tumblr user mathancaulscott)  
> "imagine max and nathan mailing back and forth as penpals, except they're unaware of the other's real identity until max accidentally drops an actual present that nathan mailed to her in front of him." 
> 
> the canon timeline has been altered to suit the story. blackwell starts in august rather than september, and rachel goes missing in july rather than april.

AUGUST

  
The first day of school is like the pill he'd had to swallow that morning—bitter, and not what you want to deal with early in the morning. Not for the first time, Nathan wishes he could go to a school where no one knew who he was.

His day is blues and blacks, like a fresh bruise. Blue like the dull sapphire of Principal Wells' tailored suit as he lectures Nathan from behind his desk about starting the new year on a good foot. Black like the shrouded swirls he sees when he presses his eyelids closed. Blue like the ink on the note Hayden passes to him in first period, _hook me up w some fire after school?_ Black like Warren Graham's eyes as he scathingly announces to the new girl to stay far away from spoiled, rich Nathan Prescott.

Warren acts like Nathan isn't within hearing range of them. "Seriously, that psycho is _bad_ news. Everyone knows it. The only reason anyone ever hangs out with him is 'cause he gives them drugs."

Graham isn't such a golden child himself. All of last school year Nathan had watched him pathetically turn his attention to any living, breathing girl that would pay attention to him. If one wasn't interested, he moved onto the next one. Nathan wouldn't have been surprised if he'd gone in literal alphabetic order. He had no standards for himself, and desperation oozed out of his every pore, Nathan thinks to himself scathingly.

He means to look away, but the girl raises her pale gaze to his. There's no sign of the hatred Warren intended to spark in her. She looks merely inquisitive.

"God, Warren, did your mother dress you over webcam this morning?" Victoria's clear voice rises above the hallway chatter. She cuts her gaze to Nathan. It's obvious to him that she knows he's upset, and he mentally curses at not being able to hide it better.

"What's that? I can't hear you around that silver spoon crammed in your mouth." Warren says back, emboldened by the presence of the new girl.

"Keep thinking about my mouth, pervert. Whatever distracts you from your pathetic life."

Nathan tips his head toward the exit, bored with the exchange. Victoria turns obligingly but Warren dips his voice conspiratorially to the girl and all Nathan can make out is _bitch_.

"Get ass-fucked, Gayram," Nathan yells at him. Warren shakes his head as if Nathan has only proven him right.

 

* * *

  
  
_Nathan -_  
_I haven't heard from you in a while. You're probably still mad at me for leaving. I don't blame you. The only reason I stayed as long as I did was you. I couldn't stand the thought of packing up and leaving you behind as the sole target for father to take his shit out on, but I couldn't stay another second. Not after that night._  
_I hope you can forgive me._  
_It's so amazing that you're a part of Blackwell's art program, I am crazy proud of you. Keep an eye out for mother for me, and don't let Sean push you around. Love you and hope you'll email me back soon._  
_-Kristine_

 

* * *

  
  
Nathan's ears are ringing. There is a sour taste in his mouth that's persisted all morning despite the swallow of black coffee he'd stolen from Victoria to wash it out.

Jefferson's art class, which by all means should have been Nathan's best class of the day, was turning out to be the worst. He sits in the very back row and Jefferson doesn't train his eyes on him once.

He had warned Nathan that he couldn't show him any special treatment at school. That was understandable, but he'd blatantly ignored him every time he'd put his hand up to answer a question. The only class that he even bothers to participate in.

Nathan's head feels funny and he fights the urge to grind his teeth together. Distant echoes linger that he can barely make out. _"Be quiet...be still."_

He presses his fingers to his temple and struggles to focus on the lecture.

"Let's see how many of you actually did the summer reading. Who can tell me in what century was the actual practice of photography established?"

The class remains silent and Nathan raises his hand.

Jefferson continues. "You're all going to have to do better than that, this isn't public school. The answer is mid-nineteenth century, people. Wake up."  
 

* * *

  
  
**Mom:** Good luck on your first day! Make lots of friends and call me this weekend!

Max Caulfield texts back in the affirmative and finishes the turkey sandwich she'd gotten for lunch. She sits alone in the library. To her dismay, everyone at Blackwell already seems to know each other. She'd thought that by starting at the beginning of the year it would be easy to avoid the title of New Kid. No such luck.

Plenty of people had been nice to her in a distant kind of way, but one girl had waved to her in homeroom and she still didn't know her name. Warren Graham was pretty much the only person she'd officially met so far.

Max scrolls through her phone. Could have been two friends if you hadn't blown it with Chloe, she chastises herself. Her fingers hover over Chloe Price's contact info. After Chloe's dad had been killed in a car accident Max had composed over a dozen different texts and emails to send her and nothing sounded right. "Sorry I happened to move away when your dad died, hope you feel better soon," didn't quite cut it. The more time passed the more anxious Max felt, and once enough time passed where it was too late to say anything at all she felt even worse. When she thinks of Chloe she feels a heavy stone in the pit of her stomach, its sinking weight stretching out a hole for her to fall into. The closest friend Max ever had and she'd ruined it by not knowing how to say _I'm here for you._

Rolling up the plastic wrap from her sandwich, she tosses it into the garbage. Outside, the afternoon sun shines bright and golden. Blackwell's campus stood proudly, every bit as idyllic as promised in the school pamphlet. Crimson brick, green ivy, and thick pines nestle in every corner.

Max catches the attention of a group of kids sitting at one of the picnic tables.

"Hey, new girl!" The guy has short hair and wears a letterman's jacket.

"Max."

"Huh?"

"My name's Max."

"Welcome to Blackhell party tonight in room 224, _Max_."

"On a school night?"

A girl with a high ponytail turns her head in mock confusion. " _On a school night?_ " she mimics. Another girl at the table laughs.

"Shit, it's Madsen!" one of the guys hisses. "Put it out, quick!" There is a flurry of movement as cigarettes are frantically stubbed out at the sight of the security guard ambling across the grass. Max now forgotten, she walks away and sits at a different bench.

"I never really go to those things, either," someone says. It was the girl with soft blonde hair that had smiled at her in homeroom. She gestures toward the group that had invited Max to the party.

"Guess I'm not really hitting it off with the in crowd, am I?"

The girl sits down next to Max. "If you don't like partying a lot, you probably won't have much luck with them."

"I'm Max Caulfield."

"Kate Marsh. It's nice to meet you."

 

* * *

  
  
Max's last class of the day is the one she's most excited for. The Language of Photography. Mark Jefferson was world-renowned for his skill and she couldn't wait to learn from him.

She arrives early and picks a seat in the very back, unobtrusive and hopefully out of the line of immediate focus. Her phone buzzes.

 **Warren:** Meet me in the quad after class?

 **Max:** Sure.

She stashes her phone away just as class is starting. In walks Kate, followed by Victoria Chase, the girl that Warren had warned her about.

Mr. Jefferson looks younger than she'd expected from his pictures. He wears loafers and black-rimmed glasses. Max thinks his goatee is kind of lame and that he talks about himself an awful lot, but she keeps an open mind as he continues his opening speech. Once or twice he seems to sweep his spotlight briefly onto Max.

"Leave the textbook you were assigned at orientation in _your dorms_. Thanks to everybody forgetting them all over campus last year, we now have a classroom set to use while you're here. With one on each of your desks and one safe and sound in your rooms, there's no excuse not to read your assignments."

He steeples his fingers and looks out at the class with satisfaction. "Now, I want to get to know all of you a little better. Your first assignment is an easy one: show me your best work. Turn in whatever photo you think exemplifies your work as an artist by the end of the week. You'll receive full marks automatically by turning one in. This is just to determine where your skill level is at."

Victoria sits up visibly straighter in her chair, her eyes fixed on Mr. Jefferson like a hawk's. When he doesn't notice her, she raises a hand primly in the air.

"Yes?"

"If we already have a portfolio assembled, can we turn that into you?" she asks with an air of great importance.

He holds up a single finger. " _One_ photo," he repeats. "Choose wisely."

Victoria whispers something to her seatmate as he lowers himself into a stool at the front of the room. "Open your textbooks. We're starting with an overview."

A dark scribble on the back cover of the textbook on Max's desk catches her eye. The handwriting is difficult to assess. While not exactly feminine, it doesn't match the messy chicken-scratch that most boys wrote in, either. It looks long and spidery—or it would have if the letters weren't cramped together like that, like the writer had little energy to make full strokes on the page.

I'M WORTHLESS, the writing says. Without thinking she writes underneath it, _You're not._

"Maxine Caulfield."

She jumps violently. "Um, Max," she automatically corrects. The whole class is looking at her.

"If I can't even keep your attention on the first day that doesn't bode very well for the rest of the year, does it?" The class snickers. "I said chapter one, no?"

"Yes. Sorry." She'd thought she was getting in trouble for writing in the textbook. Max flips quickly to the beginning of the book and feels her face get warm at the unwanted attention.

 

* * *

  
  
"Man, I _told_ y'all he had the hookup," Hayden exclaims. "Hit this shit."

The music bumps steadily, the room hazy with smoke and pungent with the smell of liquor and weed. The back to school party is in full swing and they'd worked hard in ensuring its survival. Black-out curtains, disabled smoke detectors, security guard routes distributed—the works.

It's exclusive like most of the Vortex parties, but this time it's mainly because only so many fucking people can fit into a dorm room at one time. Students pack into the room, passing joints and gripping plastic cups. Everyone is trashed and a clump in the center has begun to dance.

Taylor, who had already made her way through a round of dancing, tears, and drunken phone calls joins their circle on the couch.

"Taylor, you've gotta try this bud Nathan brought. Best in Arcadia Bay," Hayden says excitedly, overly caffeinated from the energy drinks he was stirring his liquor into.

"Did you _see_ Mr. Jefferson in class today?" Victoria asks Taylor. "He really wore the shit outta those jeans."

"You are unbelievably thirsty," Taylor laughs, pulling deeply on the joint.

"Don't act like you weren't checking him out with the rest of us. A man like that demands appreciation."

"A man like what? A man high on himself?" Hayden asks.

"After his contributions to the art world, I'd say he's earned it," Victoria says. Turning to Nathan, she continues. "How sucky is it that you're in Jefferson's early class and I'm in the afternoon?"

"Just say the word and I'll have the administration office change your schedule," Nathan boasts. "That whole staff is shitting themselves in fear of my dad getting them fired."

"Oh, stop! Don't really do it," she says with glee and swipes the front of his jacket.

Nathan's drink burns the back of his throat like bile. The room begins to spin peacefully. His seatmates on the couch switch rapidly as people come and go for different drug transactions. Smoke thick between his teeth. Everything bleeds like watercolors. He floats in sensory deprivation until Victoria moves into his line of vision and breaks him out of his stupor.

Victoria eases the plastic cup out of his fingers and sits on his lap, settling underneath his arm. Her skin feels warm and slightly damp from all of the dancing. She leans forward to speak in his ear and her earrings jingle. "I don't know whose iPod is on the aux but their taste royally blows. You'd better plug your phone in before people start bailing."

Nathan nods but makes no move to get up just yet. Victoria clenches a cigarette between her teeth and he lights the end of it for her.

"If I hear this fucking Odesza song one more time I'm going to kill myself." She shifts off of him and he digs through his pocket to extract his phone.

"You do it."

"Back in a flash." She takes his phone and disappears, scrolling through his playlists.

By the time she returns Nathan feels like he's swimming all over again. In the middle of all the commotion he begins to hear Jefferson's voice. _"You're hesitating. Take the shot."_

Someone was tugging on his arms and an involuntary chill sweeps his lungs. Victoria's voice cuts through the fog. "Dance with me, Nathan."

He pulls his arms out of her grasp. "No."

"You are so off your face."

"So are you."

Now she drops onto the couch next to him, swaying unsteadily. She speaks in a low voice, one he recognizes all too well.

"Kiss me."

"No, Vic."

"Come _on_ , just kiss me. I'm really good at it."

"I'm sure you are." She keeps pulling at his jacket and he moves further away. She only did this when she was drunk. It didn't make it any less annoying.

When she stands up she reels into Logan and tips his purple drink down the side of his jersey.

"What the fuck, you drunk bitch?" Logan yells, throwing his hands in the air. The stain blossoms and darkens the white fabric.

"You're fine, man, walk it off," Nathan says.

Logan makes another exclamation of protest and Nathan gets up from the couch, ignoring the floor tilting in his vision.

"I said _walk it off._ Unless you want your name permanently off the list."

He uses his iciest voice and Logan turns away petulantly. Deciding it was as good as any other time to call it a night, he finds Victoria's purse and walks her down the hallway to her own room. The music grows quieter behind them. Moonlight floods the corridor from the window at the end of the hall.

"You don't think Logan would have really hit a girl, do you?"

"No. He's just drunk."

"I dunno know why you won't kiss me. Everybody already thinks we're fucking," she says matter-of-factly as she opens her door. "Bacon and waffles at Two Whales tomorrow?"

"The only drug I'll never be able to kick."

"See ya there." She yawns and shuts the door.

 

* * *

  
  
Nathan seethes at his desk, memorizing the wavy pattern in the wood. Utter _bullshit_. They are now three weeks into the semester and Jefferson has not only ignored every one of Nathan's texts, he'd had the audacity to dress code him just now.

When Nathan had come into class with sunglasses, he wasn't surprised when Jefferson told him to take them off. Most teachers did. He'd been using them, in fact, to hide his puffy bloodshot eyes. Once he took off the glasses it became painfully aware that Nathan was blazed off of his face. He'd woken up with a vicious hangover and the weed was the only thing that kept him from throwing up.

Jefferson had pinned him with his eyes for fifteen full seconds before busting him for having a fucking _wine_ logo on his shirt. Said it wasn't appropriate for a high school classroom. What the fuck ever. Like anybody on this campus actually gave a shit about alcohol. He was just pissed that Nathan was high in his class.

He'd done it in front of everyone on purpose. Did he forget who he was dealing with here? Did he forget who held all the cash?

A memory wafts around him like a sour stench.

Jefferson had first taken notice of Nathan earlier that summer. Mid-June, probably. It had rained the night before and the air was sticky like soup and hot enough to melt flies so Nathan went to the art museum and planted himself in front of his favorite painting which very fortunately happened to be located next to an air conditioning vent.

The painting was completely abstract. Negative space made mostly of textured whites and grays. Off-center there was a colorful flurry of blues that shaded into darkness. He liked it because it kept his brain busy to look at it without straining to focus on anything. Sometimes when he tried to make out an image he saw a boy drowning at sea, reaching a long arm out of the blue up towards the sky.

On this particular day he'd answered his phone and had the nasty shock of discovering that his father had blown a tire on his way to an executive conference and was in a foul temper. It was complete suicide to end the call before Sean had finished his rant, and Nathan stood uncomfortably in front of the painting that was now growing uglier by the second. The cold air blasting from the vent became intolerable.

Nathan began to feel like a corpse being preserved in a freezer and he glumly made his way across the building to the new modern photography exhibit the museum had on loan, phone glued to the side of his head while his father spit grievances into his ear.

He leaned against a wall and slumped. "I'll be more careful this semester," he said in a low voice. It was best to calmly agree with whatever Sean said. Drastically cut down on the minutes of conversation.

"I mean it, Nathan. With Pan Estates about to break ground all it would take is a single fuck-up from you to grind this machine to a halt. We need to maintain good publicity and it's up to you to contain yourself this year. Do you understand me?"

"Yeah."

" _Excuse_ me?"

"Yes, sir."

By the time he disconnected the call it became more difficult to control his breaths. Leg jiggling, fingers clenched, brow furrowed, he must look like a freak. Everyone was staring, they could all see what a loser he was, what a failure he was. He wanted to yank a curtain in between them to shield himself from public view. His dad might as well have been on speakerphone with his booming voice.

"Isn't it amazing what a great photographer can capture in an expression?"

He wasn't sure how many minutes had passed. The chill in the museum clung to him. Mark Jefferson stood at attention at a nearby painting, his back to Nathan, hands clasped behind his back.

"Photographers don't always receive due credit in this regard. We have to take what already exists and show it to people in a new light, while painters," he gestured to the painting in front of him, "have the freedom to create the reality they want."

Nathan unclenched his fists as Jefferson spoke. His words gave Nathan something to focus on. He could guess that Jefferson was speaking to him, but with his back still turned Nathan couldn't be quite sure.

"That's why the right model," Jefferson continued, "is _crucial_ to a quality product. The best photographer in the world cannot capture what isn't there." He tipped his head over his shoulder to examine Nathan. "That's the difference between a master and a novice; the ability to see the potential in a model."

Jefferson's footsteps tapped echoes in the large white hallway. Nathan followed as if being tugged along by a pulley.

"See here, for instance," Jefferson said critically, extending his hand toward a black and white photo of a woman. The silver name plate next to it reflected the overhead lights. "Vapid. The only truth here is emptiness. Her eyes stare straight into the lens and yet she has nothing to tell us. We'll never know this photographer's true talent until he finds a better subject. A subject with depth. An artist is only as good as his subject."

The air was cold on the back of his neck and he wiped his sweaty palms onto his jeans. For once Nathan felt as if no answer was required of him, and he looked at the photograph on the wall through this new perspective, letting the words soak.

"I'm Mark Jefferson. I teach at Blackwell."

"Yeah, I have your class next semester." Nathan had seen him around campus last year. The world-renowned photographer had been the headlining gossip around Arcadia Bay for months after his initial arrival.

"I look forward to acquiring a student of taste, Nathan. I'm sure you won't disappoint me."

"You know me?" Nathan grew flustered.

"How could a member of this town's most influential family escape my notice?"

Now, glaring at the little _Dress Code_ slip Jefferson had given to him in class, he crunches it up in his fist, wishing he could grind it to powder. His foot taps irritatedly on the tile. Just two months ago he had opened Nathan's eyes in the art world and now he'd pulled back, ignoring him just like his father, humiliating him in class, leaving him to be swallowed up by the frigid white noise once again.

 

* * *

  
  
Nathan spends his eighteenth birthday trashed. There are voices and pictures melting together, pressing insistently on his mind and he drinks hoping to blot them out. Unfortunately, his thoughts are a cranberry stain on a white tablecloth and he can never truly be rid of them.

He'd booked a suite for the night and thanks to Victoria it had become an Event, word spreading through the school like a brushfire. He hired the music and the light rentals, but beyond that she handled everything.

Bar glasses wet with condensation, neat little lines straightened with an ID card, glittering eyes, delicate hors d'oeuvres peppering forgotten trays sitting on the back table, shots of liquor that burned, and tiny round pills that disappeared into people's palms like a sleight of hand trick.

When he wakes up it is quiet, and he feels the smooth porcelain of the hotel bathtub underneath his fingers. His head pounds. There is vomit on his shirt. The morning sun is a scythe, slicing through the window to blind him.

 

* * *

  
Weeks pass before Max's textbook falls open to the back cover again in photography class.

I'M WORTHLESS stares back up at her from the book. Max's own handwriting, _You're not_ still nestles beneath it. Now, however, there is something new.

GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK

It's the same spidery-looking scribble as before. They _answered_. Which means that the first message was written recently. Back of the classroom, back of the book. Someone else in Mr. Jefferson's class who wanted to blend into the background. Someone in an earlier period, maybe?

This day sucks. Max had forgotten her math homework and completely failed a chemistry quiz and Victoria had said something bitchy to her at lunch. She was in no mood to be argued with. Looking down at the dismissive scrawl on the page, Max feels a trickle of anger she doesn't expect.

_so sorry for interrupting your self-deprecation with something positive_

She forgets to check it for two more weeks. By the time she checks the back cover, she finds a note slipped into the pages instead.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> side note, it is so hard to write high school nathan??? like he's supposed to be loudmouthed and angry and i am s t r u g g l i n g lmao


	2. September

SEPTEMBER  
  
The vinyl seat squeaks as Nathan slides into the booth at the Two Whales diner across from Victoria and Zachary. There were closer and swankier breakfast places to eat at, but Nathan would have driven twenty miles for some thick-cut Two Whales bacon.  

"I wish I was alive in the eighties when smoking was still allowed in restaurants," Victoria says halfway through their food.

"I hear that," Nathan replies, shaking Tabasco over his plate.

"You guys are insane," says Zach. "Between the cigarettes and the amount of fried garbage you two consume you can kiss your retirement ages goodbye." Zach's plate consists of egg whites and dry whole wheat toast. It was football season and his body was a well-oiled machine, a temple, and it was going to land him straight in college with an athletic scholarship.

"You'll have to pry these hashbrowns out of my dead fingers," she answers.

"Won't be hard, considering how weak your joints will be from lack of fiber and nutrients."

Victoria lets out a deceptively sweet sigh. "Well, at least one vitamin I'll never be lacking in is the _D_."

Zach had been drinking orange juice and when he sputters it dribbles down his chin before he can lunge for his napkin.

"Victoria Chase, ladies and gentleman," Nathan says, raising his coffee mug in reverence.

The bell above the door jingles and Victoria looks over Nathan's shoulder with a grimace. "Ugh, here we go. Doesn't she realize that Rachel left for L.A. like, _months_ ago?"

Nathan jolts at the mention of Rachel Amber. He twists surreptitiously in his booth and sees Chloe Price slapping up missing posters on the windows of the diner. She hesitates before taping three more up, deciding they aren't eye-grabbing enough. She gives their table a surly glance and flings herself onto a stool at the counter.

"I guess that's how pathetic high school flunk-outs spend their time. Hanging out at their mother's day shift," Victoria says, pretending to examine her fingernails. Her voice is loud enough to carry over the jukebox, and it's what she intended in the first place.

Chloe flicks her blue hair out of her eyes. Placing a booted foot on the ground, she swivels toward them in contempt.

"What are you still sitting here for, shouldn't you be compulsively purging all those calories in a stall somewhere? Bathroom's that way, ya know." She jerks a thumb over her shoulder.

Victoria's eyes are mere slits, but she doesn't respond. Great, Nathan thinks. Now she won't eat for a week. He says, "Hilarious that this punk bitch is going to talk to us about image complexes. You look like a fucking poster child for a welfare campaign."

"Oh, shit! The almighty Prescott douche got offended! I better keep an eye out for a lawsuit from his daddy's company."

"At least he _has_ a daddy," Victoria says coolly.

It's entirely too low of a blow, even for Victoria, but judging by the shade of pink brushing her cheeks, she'd skipped three stages of petty and gone straight for the kill.

Chloe's eyes fly to her mom behind the counter, fumbling with the coffee carafe. Head server and shift manager. She can't make a scene right now. Instead she flips them an excessively crude hand gesture and stalks out the door with the wrath of a newly detained convict.

"Ruthless, Vic," Zach says, mopping his face with a napkin and dropping some bills next to his plate. "Absolutely wicked. Catch you guys later."

"Hm. She seemed mad," Victoria says with nonchalance.

Nathan finishes the last lukewarm swallow of coffee and when Joyce Price comes back over to the table he orders one to go.

"With all the takeout coffee you order from here I should consider puttin' logos on the cups. Talk about free publicity," she says good-naturedly, unaware of the altercation that had just passed between them and her daughter. "I'll bring the check out with that coffee."

Nathan catches Victoria staring apprehensively at her remaining hashbrowns, her perfect eyebrows furrowed into a little V.

"Just eat the fucking food, Vic."

 

* * *

  
**Victoria:** where the hell r u?  
**Victoria:** if u were skipping u could have at least invited me  
**Victoria:**   rude

Nathan stops pacing his dorm to check his phone and the sudden lack of momentum slams into him and his stomach twists uncomfortably. 10:39 am. That means World History. He chews his thumbnail. He'll be hearing from the school counselor for ditching. The added stress of keeping it off of his dad's radar looms over him like a murky haze. When his hangnail starts to bleed he switches to his left hand. Fuck. Gotta get it together.

Swiping at the wet sheen on the back of his neck, he counts to ten. _It's okay, it's okay, it's okay._ He says it out loud and it makes it worse.

Class isn't an option this morning. He tries to tell himself that it's better he stay home but all he hears is the clear bell of judgment, ringing _failure_.

It's a bad day. Did he take his meds earlier?

Rachel's face on the missing poster has sent him spiraling like a bug being shaken in a jar. He feels like new memories jolt out of him at every mention of her name, memories that didn't make sense. Things he couldn't remember saying. Details muddy and mixed up.

Rachel Amber had disappeared sometime in July and it wasn't until her parents called all of her friends looking for her that anybody realized she was gone. Her parents were upset, but no one was truly _surprised_ when she vanished. Records of a one-way ticket purchase had been uncovered. Anybody that had spoken to Rachel for longer than ten minutes knew that her ambition was to get as far away from Arcadia Bay as possible. Of course she'd left.

Nathan remains unconvinced. Something didn't feel right. Something urgent he needs to remember, but can't. He is forever plagued with the idea that she might step out from behind a corner at any moment. _Hey, guys. You miss me?_ He has no concrete reason to believe she is still in Arcadia Bay, just a queasy certainty that came from his gut.

And since when had trusting his gut ever gotten him anywhere?

 

* * *

  
  
Chloe's retaliation came in the form of an ugly scratch. A key dragged viciously over the cream-colored paint of Victoria's Lexus.

Victoria shrieks in the parking lot, vowing revenge and startling the birds off of their branches. She tries to invoke equal fury in Nathan on her behalf, but his morning meds have kicked in and he feels as if he's watching the whole thing from a distance through a warped glass.

 

* * *

  
  
Max squeezes her eyes shut and when she opens them she stares at a sea of white polaroid squares. She started her wall of photographs as soon as she moved into her dorm. She looks at the snapshots and pretends she is a stranger trying to learn everything she can about Blackwell through the photos alone. It looks happier than it is, she decides.

When her phone buzzes she can guess who it is.

 **Warren:** What are you doing on your free period? Let's start a binge marathon, your pick

 **Max:** Sorry, I have to study

 **Warren:** Nice, productivity! I could really use a study partner rn

 **Max:** Can't swing it today. I'm pretty behind so I need one of those monster solo sessions

 **Warren** : Hmu if you need a coffee break

Max can't help but think the word _overbearing_. She'd hung out with him every day this week. Warren is nice and she's happy to be his friend. The problem is she'd picked up on something that read a little more than friends.

She'd been honest about the studying. Blackwell teachers grade way harder than she is used to. That bit on the website about how excellence was demanded of their students was not a fancy marketing tactic to lure parents.

The legs of her chair creak as she sits at her desk. What she needs to do is start searching the library database for sources for her history paper. Instead she opens a new tab to check her email.

Her breath catches when she sees the new message envelope.

These messages were one of the strangest things to ever happen to her at school. She'd answered a piece of grafitti, and it answered back. And then it _kept_ answering her back. Weeks later and here she was.

Her journal lay open on her desk. The original conversation they'd had was so weird that she had copied it down in her September fifteenth entry. She'd read it so many times she could practically recite it. The person is kind of an asshole.

I'M WORTHLESS

_You're not_

GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK

_so sorry for interrupting your self-deprecation with something positive_

WOW AMAZING. I'M CURED

_who said anything about curing you? see a therapist man_

YEAH RIGHT FUCK THAT A SHRINK CAN'T HELP ME

_ooh, I almost cut myself on that edge_

FUCK YOU, PUSSY BITCH

_maybe if you tried being real instead of this whole act you've got going on you'd feel better about yourself._

TRUST ME NOBODY'S INTERESTED IN THAT

_Try me_

Initially Max had considered that the note could be intercepted by another student. After all, it was a full sheet of spiral notebook paper folded up conspicuously between the pages of a classroom-set textbook, used by every kid that sat at that desk.

Every art class she'd find the textbook sitting in its usual place, and the paper inside would have a new line of this mystery person's surly commentary. Clearly it was somebody from Mr. Jefferson's early class. After a while Max just straight up asked them:

_So who is this?_

FORGET IT

_why?_

U DON'T NEED TO KNOW

_woooow trust issues much? so fine. i'm still waiting for you to tell me something real_

ANYBODY COULD READ THIS

_Paranoid_

I DON'T HAVE TO EXPLAIN MYSELF TO SOME RANDOM GIRL IN ART CLASS

_how do you know I'm a girl?_

I CAN TELL

_By what, specifically?_

I JUST CAN

_you're so full of shit.  
...well don't you want to know who I am?_

DON'T CARE

_then why bother writing back_

BECAUSE I WANT TO

_Your handwriting is so bad I want to barf_

DEFINITELY A GIRL

And on it went. Max was suspicious about them withholding their name so adamantly. She teetered back and forth wildly as to whether or not she should continue to respond. Some days Max sat through almost entire class periods stubbornly refusing to check the note in the textbook. _I'm not going to write back this time,_ she would tell herself. It always felt a little harder to focus on the teacher's lectures on those days, and she could never quite make it to the bell, caving to curiosity in the last five minutes, sliding the paper out with the stealth of a King's thief.

That was another issue: writing the notes without anyone seeing. Mr. Jefferson hated it when people didn't pay attention to his lectures. He was the type of teacher that was Involved with his students; he made firm eye contact, he circled the room, he wanted his daily rap sessions and the full participation that came along with them. Max could only imagine the pure torturous embarrassment of Mr. Jefferson busting her writing notes to another student.

She found herself rolling her eyes at some of these responses. This really seemed like someone who was either desperate for an audience to show off to, or someone who was asking for help in a repressed, emotionally fucked-up way.

_no way I'm giving you my phone number. u could look me up_

NOW WHO'S IDENTITY PARANOID

_tell me your name and I'll tell you mine_

It was settled that they would trade email instead. Their school emails had their names in them, so Max created a new account that she couldn't be recognized by.

She clicks the email thread that they've been replying to and reads the latest message:

**i fuckin hate this school. everybody is a huge fake**

Max ponders this before typing back.

_I think...for some people it's not so cut and dry. most of the time I don't even know what it means to be "myself." sometimes I feel like I'm pretending. I wonder if I'm acting like me, or acting like people I know._

If all he's going to do is complain, Max thinks to herself for the millionth time, it's better to stop responding. And she was sure now it was a he. It had to be. Their conversations got too heated, he was too aggressive, and it just screamed "testosterone" to Max. She aimlessly shuffles through her open tabs, stalling on her homework until she sees another new message pop up.

**yeah. me too. i guess it might be a while before we figure out what kind of people we really are**

_Wow. An honest response._

**yea u really bring out the worst in me**

She smiles despite herself.

 

* * *

  
  
The china plate in front of Nathan clinks delicately as a lamb cutlet is lowered onto it.

"Nathan, darling. You'll absolutely love this sauce I've chosen," his mother says flatly, scrolling rapidly on her phone. "It's just like our dinner at the Park Hyatt. In Paris, remember?"

"I've never been to Paris," he says glumly.

She doesn't look up from her phone. "Pardon?"

"You never took me to Paris," he repeats loudly.

"Don't be ridiculous, of course we did."

"You're thinking of Kristine."

She laughs at something on her screen and types a reply.

Every few weeks Nathan went back to the Prescott Estate for dinner on Sundays. This one is just as excruciating as the rest of them.

"I don't give a shit, Harrison," Sean says into his phone. "Cover it up. If this gets in the papers I'm blaming you, specifically. It's your ass that's gonna get the boot. You can bank on that." He hangs up.

Nathan pushes his food around his plate. "Who's the lawsuit about this time?"

Sean looks up sharply. "Don't fucking talk to me like that. This isn't a joke and your smart mouth isn't acceptable." He tips his glass back and swallows the liquor in one neat gulp.

Sean looks down at his phone and chuckles. "That asshole Harrison sounded like he was about to shit himself. That's how you've got to talk to your inferiors. It's the only way they'll do their damned job. Eh, son?" He leers expectantly at him.

Nathan forces his face to stretch into a reciprocating grin and he worries that it will crack from disuse.

By the time he can excuse himself from his dessert plate—crystal this time—Nathan is already boiling over. His fingers drag through his hair. His lungs feel cramped and compressed.  

He calls Jefferson with shaking hands. It rings and rings.

"You've reached Mark Jefferson. Leave your information after the beep."

"Why have you been ignoring all of my calls? This was not part of the deal." Nathan paces the length of the bathroom. "I thought—I thought you said that I had talent," he lowers his voice. "And now you're acting like we never fucking talked at all. Just tell me what you want me to do, okay?"

When he ends the call, Nathan's head pounds like a low-pitched drum. He remembers the things he'd said to him.   

_"I would be happy to mentor you before classes start this year, but I'm afraid I don't have the proper workspace for it. It's proved so impossible to find a place I've even considered moving to a bigger city to teach."_

_"Well, I—I might know somewhere."_

Fuck him! Fuck everything. A hot flush creeps over his scalp. His hands continue to shake wildly and he opens the mobile app for his email.

He presses reply and types a badly-worded burst of emotion.

**say something any subject. talk about anything. tell me about your favorite animal**

Sitting on the edge of the bathtub surrounded by his mother's stupid designer towel sets and imported Venetian tiles, he tries to catch his breath.

His phone buzzes and it's a new email.

_I really love birds. being up high means they've always got the best view, and they work so hard making their homes and finding food. they're smart, too. I love watching them fluff up when it's cold. When I was little my mom helped me cut up strings of yarn and fabric shreds and showed me how to clothespin them to our wooden fence. I stayed outside until it was dark watching all the different kinds of birds that landed to pick out pieces for their nests._

He smiles despite himself.  

 

* * *

  
  
Mr. Tanaka, the school counselor, is clearly caught off-guard when Nathan arrives early to their meeting. The window slams shut, and Mr. Tanaka's face turns red from suppressing a cough while he swats the air in front of him. He spins around to face Nathan and his chair squeaks loudly.

"Mr. Prescott, please sit down, sit down." He clicks on a little battery-operated fan sitting on top of his file cabinet.

He squints at his computer screen through his glasses and taps a few keys with tobacco-stained fingers. "You've had some sporadic absences and classroom conduct incidents filed so far this semester. You've heard the spiel enough to know it's school policy to address this."

Nathan slumps in his seat. "Yeah, so what do you want me to say?"

"Well, I'd like to know what you have to say regarding these absences and your recent behavior."

"Not much."

The remnants of a tuna sub that Mr. Tanaka had been eating for lunch sits forgotten at the end of his desk. The hot sun through the window had turned it oily and the cramped office has begun to smell like fish.

"Mr. Prescott, have you—" He hesitates and folds his hands together. "Is there a time of day that's better than others to reach your father?"

Nathan looks at him. So Sean had been ignoring the man's calls. This could work out in his favor.

"Look, Mr. Tanaka," Nathan says, leaning forward. "I have a therapist. One we pay a ton of money for. My dad is a really busy guy. Really busy. And I'd hate for there to be a misunderstanding as to what he considers 'need-to-know' versus what he considers a waste of his time."

Mr. Tanaka's forehead looks a little shiny under the light. "If—if you could just pass along the message that he might give me a call at his convenience?"

He sits back triumphantly. "Sure thing."

 

* * *

  
  
If I were a bird, Max thinks to herself, I'd be a sparrow. Something small and plain that goes about its business without many people noticing.

She sits with Warren and Kate at lunch. It is a thing of beauty to have someone to eat with after the embarrassing stint of sitting alone. When she texted her mom about finding friends she had responded, _Go, Maxine!_ Maybe it was lame, but it felt nice to have a cheerleader.

"I almost forgot," Max says, reaching into her bag. "Thanks so much for letting me use your notes. I feel like I'm drowning in chem class."

"Anytime," Warren answers sincerely.

"I'd pay my entire Blackwell tuition to read that nerdy love letter you just handed over." Victoria's voice is bitter and mocking. She came out of nowhere.

"I guess it's true that shallow people only see what they want to," Max comments, but Warren looks embarrassed at the mention of a love letter.

There are three of them and only one of Victoria and she moves along just as quickly as she appeared.

If Victoria Chase was a bird, Max thinks, she'd be a vulture. Sweeping her long black feathers like a cape, waiting for an opportunity to feed.

 

* * *

  
  
"I am fucking _sick_ of Max Caulfield," Victoria says. She pinches the joint from Nathan's fingers and waves the smoke out of her face. They're in Nathan's truck, watching the sun dip below the horizon at the beach. The new security guard has been a royal pain in everyone's ass and it was becoming safer to toke off-campus.

"Who?"

"This hipster try-hard in my art class. I've never seen anybody so pathetic in my life." She coughs and passes it back to Nathan.

"More pathetic than Gayram?"

"Funny you mention it. They're new best friends, if that gives you any indication. They fucking deserve each other." Victoria balances her feet on the dashboard. "Mr. Jefferson keeps making a big deal about her so-called 'talent.' All she does is take selfies and pretend to be coy and mysterious. She doesn't fool me."

Great. Somebody else for Jefferson to shower attention onto. Nathan hates this girl already.

"Just invite her to a Vortex party," he says. "Make sure she gets the 'Blackhell welcome.'"

"Believe me, I've thought about it. Little Miss Perfect is too good for parties."

Nathan taps the ash from the joint out his window, bored of the conversation. He begins to feel that deep hazy contentment, distancing himself from the world the higher he floats. He stubs the roach out in the ashtray and immediately lights a second one. A cluster of birds hop around in the parking lot and he watches them closely.

"Hello? Puff, puff, pass, it's not a blunt," Vic interrupts his daydreaming. He hands her the joint.

"Give me those fries." Nathan points to the takeout bag from their lunch. He tosses a few out of his open window and watches the birds flap their wings gracefully in their rush to get the food. He aims his camera at them.

"How Mary Poppins of you."

He turns to her and grins. "Right?"

When his phone buzzes he checks it immediately to make sure it's not a new email. He feels his stomach sinking. It's his father.

"What's wrong?"

"It's my dad. I have to drive home tonight."

Victoria's face crumples slightly. "Do you want me to come with?"

"No need. He's just going to yell at me for an hour and then kick me out."

She falls silent and stares at the floor mats.

"Hey," she tries to rally, "Hayden left the stickiest green of all time in my dorm the other night. I'll wait up and when you get back we'll do some serious medicating."

He glances over in appreciation. Only Vic knew the hell he went through with his dad. He was always in need of a distraction after Sean's monologues.

"Thanks."

The birds fly away as the sky turns the colors of mangoes.

 

* * *

  
  
At lunchtime, Max's phone buzzes and it's an email notification. For days they've been going back and forth saying one thing about themselves they don't usually tell people. So far Max knows that he likes spicy food, his family never had a pet, and he broke his wrist jumping off a swingset when he was in second grade.

**it's your turn. i know that's why u didn't message me back all day yesterday.**

She types back, _that is not why. yesterday's lab buried me in homework, give me a break._

**your turn.**

_pushy_

**i'm waiting**

_fine! i think mixtapes were like the height of passion and i think it sucks that nobody makes them anymore. go ahead and laugh._

**ofc nobody makes them anymore, nobody has tapes**

_cds then_

**why isn't it acceptable to just link you a playlist**

_it's not the same. there's no romance in a fucking spotify link._

**i think a lot of people would say that poems and love letters and shit were the height of passion**

_i don't want either of those things. it's YOUR turn by the way._

The next day she gets a message from him to go to the Two Whales diner and sit in the second to last booth, on the side facing away from the door and check under the fucking seat. Was he for real?

_.....you're kidding me right? holy shit. espionage?? did you plant a bomb? tell me if i need special equipment._

He doesn't answer and she figures she's just going to have to see what he's talking about. She waits another day in case he's trying to be slick and stake the place out for her. She catches Blackwell's last bus out for the day and gets off at the stop outside the diner.

It had to be the Two Whales, didn't it? Chloe's mom Joyce worked here, and Max still hasn't gotten in touch with either of them since she'd been back in town because she is a cowardly little worm.

When she steps inside, Joyce is nowhere to be seen and Max heads past the counter and turns her attention to the booths lining the wall. Well, here's the one. The delicious smell of fried food permeates the air and Max thinks what a great opportunity she's been given to order a burger.

Reaching under the table she runs her fingers along the seat. Nothing there. She tries again, ducking her head under this time so she can see. There, stuck onto the vinyl booth with a line of thick clear tape, is a CD.

No. way.

The tape makes a ripping sound as she pulls it off and reads the front of it.

In bright green marker it reads, "There's No Romance in a Fucking Spotify Link." When she sees the little doodles of cassette tapes on it she nearly squeals. Dear God, get ahold of yourself, she thinks. She bounces in her seat a little.

A server with deep crow's feet and a thick ponytail comes over to take Max's order and she realizes she's clutching the CD to her chest like Gollum and his ring. She sets it facedown on the seat next to her and clears her throat. "Just a burger, please."

 

* * *

  
Max is nearly bursting with excitement when she puts the CD in her stereo. She twists the volume knob up and throws herself onto the bed. Her string of lights on the wall glows cheerfully and she stares up at them as the first song begins to play.

A mix CD. Nobody's made her one of those since she was a kid. She thinks of the title again. Oh shit, what if they're all terrible love songs? She'll have to toss it off of the lighthouse cliff like a Frisbee and delete her email account.

Thankfully, as she works her way through the songs she's not getting any _Fatal Attraction_ vibes. It was kind of a weird line-up of artists, and the music was all different genres. Some she knew and some she didn't. So far she had identified The Faint, Boards of Canada, Juice WRLD, Cigarettes After Sex, and the Eels.

When Max wakes up her laptop and emails him back she tries to play it off cool. Should she make him one back? She clicks and opens her music library, scrolling quickly. What on earth kind of music would she put on it? Now she starts to understand why the songs varied so wildly on the one he gave her.

No blank discs to be found, but she makes a playlist in the meantime and plans on a bus trip to buy some. She fills the playlist with Sea Wolf, The Arcade Fire, The Xx, and Alt-J. He seems to like sad shit.

Two days later Max has everything set in place and she sends him an equally mysterious email instructing him to find computer #16 at the library and check underneath the desk. She'd hidden her own disc, and she'd written the track listing on the front like you were _supposed_ to. Maybe he could learn a thing or two from the champion. She decides to tell him this and opens her email again.

 

* * *

  
  
"Rachel!" he gasps her name in the dark and it wakes him immediately. Shit. He will never get back to sleep now. Why did he keep dreaming of her? In his dreams she is usually running. Fleeing, actually. From what, he doesn't know, but he does know that she never slows down, not even when he calls out to her. Her hair streams behind her like ribbons, her face frozen in fear.

Unease clamps around his throat. Something happened to Rachel. There is a voice inside his head screaming out the answer and he can't make out what it is.

An image that he doesn't understand flashes across his mind. A signpost reads _Harbor Inn, parking and jacuzzi._ The arc of a sweeping flashlight beam in the darkness.

If he didn't feel like an anvil was pressing him into the mattress he would get up and check his email. There were days back in August when the only thing that got him to art class in the morning was the burning curiosity to check the note he'd put in the textbook. He was fiercely paranoid of somebody finding it. What if the one day he ditched was the day that some random fucko in class opened his textbook and intercepted the note that had sat there all night waiting patiently for Nathan? When he had finally coaxed Mystery Girl's email out of her Nathan had snatched the note and stuffed it right into his backpack with relief. All evidence clear. Well, except for the few lines they'd initially written on the textbook itself, but that was nothing.  

He needs to speak to Jefferson. Rachel had been bumming around his class right before she'd disappeared. Maybe she said something to Jefferson about where she was going. He would _make_ Jefferson pay attention to him.

 

* * *

  
  
They meet at the barn. Jefferson's car is already inside when Nathan arrives. The structure itself is old, and it's been in Nathan's family for generations. Barely anything on the property has been maintained; heaps of trash and equipment form a miniature junkyard around the decaying barn.  

The place isn't meant to look used. It's meant to hide Sean Prescott's underground storm shelter. The bunker is hidden underneath a cellar door in the back of the barn. Beyond that is an impenetrable triple-plated steel door with a security code. Only the best would suffice for a Prescott.

Jefferson had really made himself cozy down there. He'd moved his photography and studio equipment in two months ago. The room is all white walls, muted art, black and chrome, glass and steel. Cold. Industrial. Professional.

He sits rigidly in his computer chair when Nathan enters, the screen facing away from the door.

"These voicemails need to stop," Jefferson says without looking up from the screen. Nathan begins to feel like he's a kid again, standing on the other side of his father's office desk on the receiving end of a lecture.

"You've been completely ignoring me!" Nathan accuses.

The bridge of his nose wrinkles like he has a headache. "Must you whine? This isn't a game we're playing here. I thought you understood that."

"I do!" Nathan hates the desperation that laces his tone.

Now Jefferson cuts his gaze sharply to him. "If that were true you wouldn't keep lingering in my class and leaving blubbering voice messages on my phone. You would lie low, like we discussed. We can't afford to be conspicuous after what you did."

"After what I did." It's a question but he says it flatly, confused.

"Yes, what _you_ did! We can't resume our work until the cops quit looking for her."

Fear grips Nathan. There is something ugly in his mind, knocking on the door. Something that is about to be unearthed.

"Looking for who?" he whispers. He knows the answer.

"For your precious Rachel!" Jefferson hisses like a snake and his eyes flash dangerously. When he says her name Nathan sees her hazel eyes and hair the color of a dawn sky.

"I don't—I don't know what you're talking about."

"Jesus," he says with disgust. "How many substance cocktails are you planning to consume in a thirty-day span? If your goal is to descend into a vegetative state by the end of the semester, you've got an efficient headstart."

Nathan remains rooted to the floor, struck dumb and defenseless. Jefferson comes out from behind the desk and shoves a red binder into Nathan's chest.

"Educate yourself. Maybe take this as motivation to stay sober for longer than four hours at a time."

 _Rachel_. Rachel had been their project. She was one of Jefferson's involuntary models. In the pictures she is bound and drugged, just like the rest of his subjects. Her eyes are dead and flat and Nathan knows that these will be the eyes that replace his memories of her and that he'll never see the sparkling hazel versions in his head ever again.

Rachel is not alone in all of these photos. Nathan is there, immortalized next to her in black and white. He is a pale crumbling statue beside her vibrant, all-consuming flame, and it is why Jefferson put them together in the photo. Nathan's blank desolation only highlighted her sheer passion and life, granting Jefferson a clear element of contrast that he sought as a master photographer.

"You took pictures of..." _me_. "I don't remember this." He is not there. He is floating up by the ceiling, observing himself speak with Jefferson. He is underwater with drowning lungs, listening to their muffled conversation.

"I've warned you before about mixing liquor with drugs."

"What happened?"

Jefferson shakes his head slowly as if he is just so disappointed. "You gave her too big of a dose. Once again you went overboard trying to prove yourself. Think, Nathan. You remember being here. With Rachel. Going to the junkyard afterward. It was sprinkling that night." He looks at him expectantly.

Another strobe flashes in Nathan's head and he sees the Harbor Inn sign again, cracked and faded with age. The smell of wet pines and rusted metal.

That's all he can remember and shakes his head no. "So she's..."

Jefferson motions toward the photograph dismissively. "In the junkyard."

Suddenly it is Nathan in her place, buried underneath scrap metal, mouth full of humid soil and the smell of decay stuck in his nostrils, immobilized by the pressure of mud packing him into the earth like tree roots.

 

* * *

  
  
Something wakes Max early in the morning, and she's not sure what it is. She cannot drift back to sleep and is dressed and ready for the day before anyone else in the dorm has woken up.

The sky is a pink color that only comes with the sunrise and she decides to take advantage of the empty campus. Outside it is cold and she zips her jacket higher. The sun is still low and the buildings cast long shadows in the dawn light. To the west are a blanket of clouds that spell rain for the afternoon.

The emptiness is serene and Max breathes in deeply, feeling fresh and awake. She searches for birds or squirrels to snap a picture of and is surprised to see a boy in the far distance, rounding the corner to come to the dormitories, hands stuffed into his pockets. The sun is rising directly behind him, making him difficult to see. Max raises her camera and takes the shot.  

His pace quickens and Max is even more surprised to see that it's Nathan Prescott and that he's headed right for her.

"Did you just take a picture of me?" he demands.

"Oh—" This is not what she expected him to say. She looks at the polaroid brightening in her hand, and it's just as cool as she intended. An indistinguishable shadow emerging from the morning rays. "Not really. I mean, you can't even tell who it—"

He yanks it from her fingers and the contact jolts her, like he's sent a vicious Taser volt through her arm. "Hey!" she protests.

"Don't ever take a fucking photo of me again!"

She is stunned for a few seconds. He was actually yelling at her. He was in her face and _yelling_ at her.

"Are you listening to me? Who the fuck do you think you are?"

Max takes a step back and her eyes dart to the dormitory windows and she fully expects to see faces peeking out between slivers of curtain at the noise he is making. She sees no one. "Your face isn't visible in the picture. What's your problem?"

"My problem is people thinking it's okay to photograph me whenever they feel like it!"

"It was an honest fucking mistake, okay? You don't have to scream in my face."

"I can do whatever the fuck I want, my parents own this place. Watch where you aim your piece of shit camera."

He looks ill, she decides. The fatigue in his expression indicates that he hasn't slept (as does sneaking back on to campus so early in the morning,) and his unshaven face and heavy shadows around his eyes make him look older than he really is. He looks like he's a million miles away, somewhere in another world.

He really does have nice eyes, though, she thinks. They're full of something like melancholy, something bottomless she doesn't understand. She's seen the way he treats Victoria and knows that he's not a complete monster all the time and wonders briefly what it would have been like to be his friend. His neck slumps like a wilted flower and whatever he sees in her face only makes him angrier and he shoves her aside with a sharp elbow jutting out as he continues to the dorms.

 

* * *

  
  
He hides the second mix CD in the same place at the Two Whales. Max is giddy when he tells her to check the booth again. It is titled, "Interrupting Your Self-Deprecation" and he's drawn little birds on the front and carefully penned the track listing. It's all over the place like the last one. Parov Stelar, The Willowz, Deftones, Pavement, Lil Peep.

They continue emailing back and forth that night and when he admits he hates himself just like everybody else hates him too she tells him that she doesn't.

**you don't even know me**

_i know that whales are your favorite animal and that you like crunchy peanut butter and those godawful pizza flavor chips. i know you hate your dad for being an asshole all the time. i know that you act like a bully because you want someone to care about you but don't know how to show it. i know there's people you care about and don't know how to show that, either._

She holds her breath as she hits send and he never responds.

 

* * *

  
  
Max's bag sits open on the table at lunch, and Warren reaches in once he sees the handwriting on the front of the CDs. She has one earbud in and notices him too late.

"Hey, did somebody make you these mixes?" He thumbs through them and frowns. "'Interrupting Your Self-Deprecation.' 'Acting Like People I Know.' Hm. I don't get it."

She takes them back from him in what she hopes is a casual way and he won't realize what he's stumbled onto. "Kind of...an inside joke sort of thing."

He still spotted the name of the other CD. "'There's No Romance in a Fucking Spotify Link,'" he quotes. Now his expression holds a different emotion than before. He laughs awkwardly. "Cute presents."

Forcing a smile, she tries to shrug it off and go back to her food. Unfortunately, he doesn't take the hint to drop the subject and keeps going. "So, uh, who gave em to you?" It's his turn to try to act casual and he's failing pretty hard at it and she wishes that Kate had sat with them today so she'd have an easier time deflecting this.

"Just a friend of mine."

He reaches up to the back of his neck. "Anyone I know?"

"Probably not." She still hasn't made up her mind about Warren. He's super into her, and he has a definite sweet side. He would probably make a great boyfriend. The problem was entering into a relationship where the affection was mostly one-sided. Was she being a snob?  After all, affection can grow over time, she thinks. Just because she can't imagine kissing him with a straight face right this second wasn't definitive of anything, right? It couldn't be much worse than a paranoid rando who wouldn't even tell her his name. Right?

 

* * *

  
  
Nathan's phone buzzes and he checks it immediately like a knee-jerk reaction, something he's been doing ever since he started emailing her. He wishes they could switch over to Snapchat or something, but it helped that he could at least answer from his phone.

It's her.

_been nothing but radio silence on my end. roger, do you copy?_

She is such a fucking dork, he thinks to himself fondly. His ever-present stormcloud smothers this. He's in his dorm with a splitting headache, the kind that comes with clenched teeth and light sensitivity, damp cloths on sweaty foreheads, splintered images that come and go like fragments on a damaged film reel.

The flickering from his projector makes it worse and he turns the damned thing off with an irritated slap. The movement jostles him and he winces, repositioning himself on his bed, staring at the ceiling through hooded lids.

He unlocks his phone to type and turns down the brightness when it hurts his eyes.

**things are shitty. haven't wanted to talk.**

_i get that. it can help sometimes, though. talking it out. if you wanted to._

Nathan heaves a sigh and he looks back up to the ceiling.

**so say there's someone you really trusted and they wanted you to do something for them, only you're not sure you want to.**

_what makes you not want to do it?_

**idk. it sounds cool and all but whenever i actually get ready to something stops me**

_well, that's all pretty vague but if something feels wrong about it then you probably shouldn't do it. i mean, if you trust them that much they should understand._

**you don't really get the situation.**

_of course i don't get the situation, you haven't explained what it is yet._

**and i can't. forget i brought it up okay**

_you are so annoying when you do this. quit bringing stuff up and then immediately saying you can't talk about it! just tell me._

**look i got myself in deep shit. i did something awful...i fucked up and i don't even know what's real and what i'm doing or which way is fucking up or down at this point**

He waits for a long time and she doesn't answer back. Just like he thought.

**guess it's time for you to contribute some radio silence of your own.**

 

* * *

  
  
Nathan sinks into the sand at the beach. Music plays from somebody's bluetooth speakers. He's taken his shoes off and can barely concentrate on the feeling of the sand underneath his feet. He and Victoria drink from their styrofoam cups of soda from the gas station. Courtney's mom works as a flight attendant and has a stash of those extremely swipe-able mini alcohol bottles and she passes a Captain Morgan around for the group to spike their drinks with.

It's a cold night, one of the first to actually feel like autumn is approaching. The chilled restless air from the sea bites their noses and roughens their throats. Hayden passes two thickly-rolled blunts in opposite directions around the circle. Sharing is caring.

He checks his phone compulsively for the eighth time that night. It's been two days and he's sent her just as many emails since then and gotten nothing.

"If I didn't know better I'd say you were waiting to hear from someone," Victoria says. She picks a piece of weed off her tongue and passes him the blunt. "And that can't be, everyone you know is here!"

"Not true."

"Everyone _worth_ it," she clarifies and gets some cheap laughs.

"It's time to hit up hallucination-nation. You bring the goodies?" Hayden asks him. Nathan rifles in the breast pocket of his coat and produces the baggie of white powder they're all after.

"So who's the new lover?" Victoria persists.

"No one," he says, irritated.

"Don't tell me she's from public school." She says _public school_ the way she would say _crack den_.

"She's not."

"So there is somebody!" she announces triumphantly. "You can't hide shit from me."

"Leave it."

"God, what's got you so down today?" Victoria switches tactics and places what she means to be a comforting hand over his. The noise, the beach, the wind, the music, the talking, everything is overstimulating and without meaning to he yanks away his hand and pretends not to see the hurt in her eyes as he climbs to his feet and the horizon sways in his vision.

"Where are you going?" she calls after him.

His truck door slams and anger clutches his insides, red and consuming and he hits the steering wheel in frustration and opens his email app and types furiously.

**y know, ur a big fucking hypocrite for bailing. just like everyone else. i get myself in trouble and people magically disappear congrats being one of the many**

The night is still early and he can't even think of going back to Blackwell. Streetlights flicker on and cast pale circles on the pavement and the branches of pine trees. He opens his windows and when he drives away the cold air whips his face.

The bar he drives to is seedy and poorly-lit and it's exactly what he's looking for. It sits between a tattoo shop and an out-of-business dry cleaner. The dry cleaner has been vacant for so long that the building is developing a serious vermin problem. He cuts his engine and glass crunches beneath his shoes in the parking lot. This place doesn't card but most of the high schoolers avoided it due to the horrible atmosphere and general vulgarity of its main client base.

No music plays at this bar which is fine with Nathan since all of Arcadia Bay's citizens listen to hillbilly shit anyway. There isn't even a TV in sight. No distractions here, just a drink and your own thoughts to contend with.

The majority of the men in here are dressed like bikers, and Chloe's hair is a smudge of blue in a sea of black leather and he's not sure how long she's been at the other end of the bar. He's not sure how long he's been sitting there, either.

The bartender fucks up his order and he snaps at him that he wanted top shelf.

"Do I look like somebody who drinks that cheap ethanol shit?"

"You _look_ like someone who's gonna be out on his ass if you don't watch it." He sets the finished drink in front of Nathan roughly and some of it spills onto the bar. "Put away that fucking wad of bills unless you're tryna get robbed." He turns away from Nathan, scratching his grizzled beard. "Fuckin' kids comin' in here..."

Chloe has moved down the bar, closer to him now. She is drinking piss beer and wears a ripped band t-shirt.

"I'm surprised you even know about this place."

"Alcohol, etc." He waves his hand dismissively.

"Yeah. Same." She lifts her beer. "I'm also surprised you're brave enough to talk to Murphy like that."

He glances over at her and she nods her chin toward the bartender.

"Yeah, well. If I'm a paying customer I should get what I pay for."

"Totally. And if anyone's got the cash to back themselves up, it's you."

He glances over at her again. She's bad at subtlety and her sudden act of playing nice is unconvincing.

 

* * *

  
  
Nathan and Chloe are still at the bar two rounds later. Murphy the Bartender looks like he's about to cut them off any minute. Her movements are loose and unwary and the hard lines of her face have softened and all Nathan thinks about is how Jefferson gave him another chance. _"You'll have to prove yourself. Show me that you're cut out for this business."_

It's obvious that the bitch is after his money. Her pupils practically dilate every time she sees his cash whenever he pays for another drink. Murphy wasn't so far off when he warned Nathan about getting robbed. Chloe was pretending to be drunker than she was and Nathan notices it. He notices because he's doing the same thing. In the angled light he could see some of her "empties" were not so empty as she made them out to be.

Nathan had been to see Frank earlier. He had Jefferson's drugs. Chloe keeps getting up to pee and it would be _so_ easy to pour some into her drink and offer a ride back to campus. Prove to Jefferson that he can be an artist. As she saunters off to the bathroom for the third time Nathan eyes her beer sweating a ring onto the bar. He reaches into his jacket pocket and takes the tiny lid off of one of the vials. When his phone buzzes in his pants he nearly falls off of his barstool.

His thumb shakes as he unlocks his phone. The notification says it's an email from _her_ and he feels something light stirring around in his stomach.

Chloe flings herself back onto her seat and spins around once on the stool like a kid. "Shit, I feel like I need a hazmat suit to use that shithole bathroom."

He doesn't answer and tries to pull up his messages. Fuckfuckfuck. The signal here blows hard. He lifts his phone toward the ceiling, knowing it won't do a fucking thing.

"So, I hear you're the one to talk to about a hookup," she says.

_No Signal_

"Is there any wi-fi here?" he blurts at the bartender.

"No, get the fuck out of my bar. We're closin'."

He hits refresh again and again while he drops some cash next to his empty glass.

"How bout that hookup, Prescott?" Chloe tries again.

The app freezes and he has to restart the phone. "Piece of shit phone. I gotta go. I know you're friends with Frank, just ask him."

He walks out of the bar and Chloe says indignantly, "Are you serious right now?"

In his truck he waits for his phone to restart and his app still won't fucking work properly. Two text messages come in, however.

 **Victoria** : are u ok??  
**Victoria:** i didnt mean to upset uuu :(

She is probably drunk. Not that Nathan can really talk. He remembers her car is still in the shop from the Key Meets Paint incident.

 **Nathan:** u didnt. need a ride home?

 **Victoria:** im covered

 **Nathan:** by someone other than logan ?

He continues to idle in the parking lot and waits five minutes for a response.

 **Nathan:** answer

 **Victoria:** its fine rlly

He heaves another sigh and swings out of the parking lot in reverse, heading in the direction of the beach.

When he gets there they're sitting in the same sorry-ass circle he left them in, just a good deal more wasted and sprawled out. Logan and Victoria linger in the parking lot, leaned up against his shitty sportscar. Her hair is mussed and Logan's lips are on her neck in the beam of Nathan's headlight. When she notices him her eyes grow bright and she says, "Nathan!" in a tipsy kind of way.

"I thought we were getting outta here," Logan complains as she bounces out of his arms.

"I've got a ride, thanks!" she calls out obliviously to him as she jumps into Nathan's passenger seat. Her face grows serious and she quits jostling. "Oh. I think I'm going to puke."

Nathan puts the truck in reverse and pops the lid off of his empty takeout coffee for her.

"Oh, God, that smells." Her face wrenches in disgust and she holds the cup away from her face. "Wait, no. I'm better." She kicks off her shoes and puts her feet up on his dashboard.

"I thought you were gonna quit 'getting rides home' from Logan."

"Yeah, whatever. It wasn't like that."

It was but he doesn't push it.

They have an easy time sneaking back into the dorms and Nathan counts the minutes before he can finally check the message. Part of him almost doesn't want to read it because he knows he deserves to be bitched out for his behavior but the other part will in no way let the message go unread. He's a shameless addict aching for his next fix.

He is ready to snap his phone in half and is relieved when he can throw himself onto his bed and check the message from his laptop. Her answer is better than anything he could have imagined.

_It's your turn._

 

* * *

  
  
Her phone buzzes on her chest and wakes Max immediately. She'd fallen asleep after sending that message to him. She checks the time and it's been forty-five minutes since she sent it. 2:43 am.

 _It's your turn,_ she'd said to him.

**if i could, i'd wipe my mind blank and start all over again. theres so much shit i wish i could forget. i'd be happier for it. ignorance really is fucking bliss**

_That reminds me of a quote I really like. give me a second and I'll find it._  
_"How happy is the blameless vestal's lot / The world forgetting, by the world forgot / Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind / Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd."_

**isn't there a movie named like that?**

_yeah. it's actually one of my favorites_

Max is already planning the next playlist she's going to burn for him. She will call it "Fuck You, Pussy Bitch" and she laughs in the dark thinking about it. She has a feeling he'll laugh, too.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope the email formatting didn't mess anyone up. no, max and nathan are not extra enough to type in bold and italics, it's only to distinguish between the two of them. the caps was for his handwriting. 
> 
> frank's purchase log states that nathan buys tranquilizer on 9/30 (before kate and before the vortex party on the 4th) and i've always held the assumption that this was the night chloe described about meeting him in a bar that didn't card them and he was "flashing bills" and she thought he'd be an easy score, so the bar scene is in reference to that.


	3. October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if u need me i'll be crying over nathan

OCTOBER

_Are you awake?_

**literally all the time**

_I can't sleep_

**perfect it's ur turn**

_pass. distract me_

**i am. play along**

_i like mint choc chip ice cream_

**that does not count. take a real fucking turn**

_how does that not count_

**that's something you'd tell anyone. we've moved beyond ice cream preferences**  
**u there?**

_i can't take my turn rn. i'm weird today. there's too much in my head and i'll just pick something i regret saying_

**helps to talk right? those are ur words**

_ha. worthy adversary._  
_sometimes i get so lonely here i think it could kill me. i have friends but i feel disconnected from them in a way that i can't explain. this used to be my home and idk why i can't get that feeling back again._  
_you still there?_

**hey**

_hey_

**i wish that we could get the fuck out of here**

_we ?_

**me and you**

_yeah. i kinda wish that too_  

 

* * *

  
  
On the first of the month he tells Max to check a new hiding place, the bench in front of the dorms—the one closest to the janitor's room. It isn't until after fourth period that she's able to step away and run back to the dorms.

For the thousandth time that semester she asks herself the same question: why did she keep running around like this for someone she'd never met? It's inexplicable. Max can't deny anymore that she actually looks forward to their talks. There were times that he didn't make sense. There were also times when he kind of freaked her out. She doesn't know what kind of trouble he's in, but she knows that it's bad.

She knows that there are kids on campus heavy into the drug scene. This guy is sure as hell erratic enough to be on drugs, but something told her that that wasn't what he was talking about that night. "I did something awful," is what he'd told her. "I fucked up and I don't even know what's real..." Max may not have met him in person, but she knows that her best chance to get him to tell her is to leave him alone about it.

Does she even want to know who he is? The illusion would be completely shattered. Thinking about it, she doesn't _have_ an illusion really. That was the problem when you communicated only through writing.

There are a few scattered leaves on the dormitory sidewalk and Max steps in zigzags to crunch them all. She can't wait until some of the colors start to change. A cold breeze picks up and Max quickens her pace and then stops dead in her tracks—damn! There are two girls already sitting on the bench. She keeps walking and sits on a different bench.

They take forever to leave. Max grows impatient pretending to read her book and tries not to glance over at them too much. She is going to be late to Mr. Jefferson's class. Don't these girls know what fifth period means? The late bell rings and she squirms.

Finally, _finally_ they get up and she hurries to the bench. Not bothering to sit down and surreptitiously feel around, she drops to her knees and inspects underneath the bench. She is blindly determined. A woman on a mission.

The clear packing tape gives way underneath her fingers and she guesses before she flips it over that it will say "Eternal Sunshine" on the front of it. She scans the artists quickly. Talking Heads. Placebo. The Front Bottoms. Banks. Interpol. If only she could listen to it now—but she is already four minutes late and it will take at least another four to run back to the classrooms.

 

* * *

  
  
Nathan is hurrying down the hall in the opposite direction of his fifth period class before he realizes what he's doing. _It's just to see Vic, it's just to see Vic_ , but he is a liar so this recitation doesn't reassure him. He's aware he's breaking their unwritten rule but his self-control is thinner than a wafer and he just has to know. He has to know who she is.

Class hasn't officially started yet and clumps of students still linger in doorways and around lockers. It is a gray day and Jefferson's classroom looks gloomy without any sunlight. The high glass windows show off the impressive layers of stormclouds expanding from the horizon.

When he scans the class with jittery eyes he sees nobody sitting in the back of the class and the air leaves his lungs for a split second as all of the momentum he's been building comes to a halt and he hits a brick wall of disappointment.

She could have changed her seat once they switched to emailing. It's somebody in this class, though. The textbook with his initial graffiti in it, the textbook that had kicked off the whole thing, sits innocuously on the empty desk.

By now Victoria has spotted him and she smiles dazzlingly, expecting him to come over to her desk so he does. He takes a mental note of everybody there. Taylor, Kate, Alisa or something like that, and the girl with glasses. Hayden. DaCosta. He knew it wasn't Victoria, so was it seriously one of them? He can't even think of asking Vic if there were any girls missing from class without ringing fifteen of her alarms. Forget it, there'd be no escape. Victoria disemboweled secrets. She'd have him pinned down in three seconds until he spilled his guts. She is ruthless and beautiful and wild and he loves her, but this is something he can't explain to her.

He feels guilty because there is nothing that Vic wouldn't share with him and he is keeping so, so many secrets. The bell rings and nobody new comes in. He supposes she could be late but now Jefferson is telling him to go to class in a tone that is meant to sound casual but Nathan can tell the difference and he barrels out of the classroom.

He shoves his fists in his pockets and glares at the tops of his shoes on his way down the hall. What did you expect? he asks himself. For her to leap up and shout, _You found me!_

Nathan turns the corner and nearly runs right into somebody. She is going fast but screeches to a halt at the last second, rising up on her toes to keep from bumping into his chest. When she realizes who he is she steps back quickly and her entire demeanor goes on the defensive because of course this is that girl he'd exploded at that one morning, the one that Victoria hated. Max.

Something hits the floor and she lunges for it but he's faster than her and he knows, he _knows_ somehow that it will be his fucking CD and he's a moron because he knew she was in Jefferson's class after listening to Victoria's rants but his fucked-up few remaining brain cells had just expunged the information until the last possible second. He almost slaps his forehead like he's the dumbass comic relief having a revelation in a sitcom.

'Eternal Sunshine.' Sure as shit. She is late to class because she wanted to get the mix he'd left for her and the knowledge twists his heart in an unfamiliar way that he decides is harrowing. There are freckles on her face he hasn't noticed before and there is faint color brushing the tips of her ears, as if she's mustering preemptive anger at whatever she thinks he's about to do with her CD.

Her eyes narrow and she takes yet another step back that completely douses whatever spark of an idea he'd just had to tell her the truth. Because he can't tell her the truth. Not about who he is, and what he's been involved in because it will be over and it will ruin everything that has passed between them.

In the end he hands the disc back and says nothing, taking in the face of the girl he's been so desperate for responses from these last three months. It surprises him how strong of a desire he suddenly has for her to reach her arms around him. The feeling comes out of nowhere and is immediately replaced by terror at the thought of physical affection. She blinks. Moves away. Counting the number of steps she takes behind him into Jefferson's class, he floats away to fifth period.

 

* * *

  
  
**J:** I see you followed my instructions not to contact me persistently anymore. Dare I inquire as to the new recipient of your late-night crises?

Nathan translates this to 'Who are you talking to and are you remembering to keep your big mouth shut?'

Ever since Nathan started talking to Max, something had changed between him and Jefferson. Not too long ago he would have given anything for Jefferson's attention. His only goal was to impress him, show him that he could be a great artist. Getting to see Jefferson's actual hidden work, the work that only so few were privy to, had made him feel important for once, like someone could trust him and use his help. Now when he searches for this same reassurance he remains empty-handed. Whatever he'd been getting from Jefferson was gone, evaporated once he saw himself in Rachel's pictures.

There's something left still. Something knocking quietly in the background just like before. His mind fog is heavy and all he wants to do is go to sleep.

He doesn't answer Jefferson in time and he gets another text.

 **J:** I think we need to meet. Bring the Vortex party list.

 

* * *

  
  
Nathan's emotions are a messy colorful grab bag impossible to sort through, and right now his subconscious is begging him to find the right piece and click it into place like the highway segments he put together for his matchbox cars as a child.

"I need to see action from you," Jefferson says. They are in the dark room and the shadows are heavy. "It's been long enough and we have important clients waiting on more photographs. This Vortex Club party is our big chance. _Your_ big chance." The ice clinks in his glass. Nathan hates that Jefferson drinks Jim Beam like his father.

Jefferson peruses the list and continues, "Victoria Chase would be an easy option. I can barely get rid of her in between classes."

Nathan's fingers twitch violently and he tries to hide them in his pocket.

"We can do better, though. 'Kate Marsh.' Now that's a name I didn't expect to see."

"She doesn't usually come to parties."

"Her first descent into corruption. How fitting." He strokes his chin thoughtfully as he decides. "She's who we need. She'll be a perfect addition to my series. I thought you would be more excited than this."

There is a clash of things going on inside him and he can't put any to words so it comes out as a shrug. "I'm not sure."

He pauses. "You are capable of so much, Nathan. I know you'll excel."

This isn't the same sentiment that Jefferson conveyed to him last month and he's starting to feel like Jefferson is only saying it now as false reassurance.

"I've been wondering some things about...Rachel."

The abrupt change of subject is clearly alarming to Jefferson and he looks very closely at Nathan. "That's in the past. We're moving forward now."

He doesn't answer and Jefferson says, "Come on."

_Come on. Come on, wake up._

The memory lights Nathan up like a neon sign. He had lifted his head and it swam so heavily that he stopped. He tried to move his arms but he couldn't. Or his legs. His vision swam and he saw Jefferson crouched over Rachel. Silver duct tape winking at him from her wrists and ankles. Her skin was ashen. She didn't move. _"Wake up. Wake up. I need one more session! Come on!"_ The empty syringe Jefferson had just used clinked to the ground as he searched for a pulse that wouldn't be there. _"Fuck! That dose was barely_ anything, _you weak whore. You were supposed to be stronger than that. Fuck you!"_ His head swiveled suddenly like a haunted dummy and he looked at Nathan on the floor in disgust. _"Look what you did."_

It's got to be written all over Nathan's face: _I would have done anything for you._ It must be, because he's screaming it in his head and it's so loud that there's no way Jefferson doesn't know. But then he realizes Jefferson knew that about him all along. It's how he was able to use him.

How long has Jefferson been watching, waiting to see if Nathan would remember the truth about who really killed Rachel? Waiting to see if he would lose that little piece of power over him?

After they finalize the plan about Kate, Nathan makes his excuses to leave.

If there's one thing Nathan is good at—and he believes it may be the _only_ thing he is good at—it's reading people.  

Jefferson looks at him like he's a new project and it is then that Nathan realizes that he is planning to kill him.

 

* * *

  
  
**if i left tonight would you come with me**

_i don't understand. leave school?_

**leave town. if i bought the bus tickets and everything we'd need. met at the station**

_it was fun to talk about it and everything, imagining what it would be like. but i don't think i can leave for real. i don't have anything i need to run from. my parents would look for me and i'd blow my scholarship._

He imagines her scenario with the regular life and the parents who cared about her and the people that would miss her if she was gone and it hurts. It hurts like a deep cut to think of these things that he doesn't have.

_don't you want to finish your education and not be stuck with minimum wage jobs the rest of your life?_

**i have to leave**

_you should stay_

**you don't know what ur asking**

_so explain it. it can't be any more outlandish than you asking me to run away without even telling me your name._  
_tell me who you are._

**no**

_why not. give me a real answer_

**u would never take me seriously if u knew**

_stop assuming you know how i'm going to react or what i'm going to say or think. i deserve better than that_

You deserve better than _me_ , Nathan thinks and he closes his email. He ignores his phone when it buzzes two more times in succession.

 

* * *

  
  
The Vortex party is in two days. Nathan feels his control slipping and it grows worse. His attitude is shitty. He's earned himself two bruised ribs from his father to remind him just how shitty his attitude has been.

 **Victoria:** hey i think u should apologize to hayden. he's really pissed at you for what you said to him last night

Who the fuck knows what he said to Hayden last night. He doesn't care. Just like he didn't care what he'd said to his math teacher or to his therapist or the dipshit who'd been blocking the aisle at the gas station.

He thinks of Max. He's emailed her some truly stupid shit when he was medicated or high. His only chance at coherency is to quit drinking so much so he can actually stay consistent on his prescribed meds. After he'd ended up in the hospital briefly last year for mixing his meds with alcohol he'd had to work out a system to keep partying with the Vortex club. It was a fucked up rotation, a dangerous balance between the drugs and liquor, and the mood swings that resulted from this were crippling, so he'd made the choice to cut back on the booze lately.

He's made her one last mix and he hid it earlier under the same bench as before. It's the last mix because everything is changing. Whether he delivers to Kate to Jefferson or skips town, it's not going to be the same ever again. Asking her to go with him had been such a stupid impulsive thing for him to do. They hadn't even met in person. Even if by some fluke she said yes she'd see him at the bus station and turn right back around.

His phone buzzes with an email from Max.

_there's nothing under the bench._

**wtf? i swear i just left it**

_well it's not there_

Guess it was time for a new hiding place.

He thinks back to Kate. Nathan doesn't see himself doing Jefferson's bidding anymore. Even if he completes every task Jefferson assigned to him with perfect aplomb, that won't stop Jefferson from trying to kill him.

Nathan knows he's in danger and the knowledge of this hangs over him like a thin film. It's there, but it's not having much of an effect. It's the cherry on top of his piece of shit life. Oh, the teacher you looked up to as a father tried to trick you into thinking you're a murderer and is now coming to end your life to keep you from snitching? Yup, sounds like a fucking Tuesday.

He is so out of here.

 

* * *

  
  
Max sits with Warren in the science room before class that afternoon when Warren asks her if she's noticed Prescott staring at her a lot lately.

"Um, no," she lies. She noticed it yesterday in the only class she shared with him.

"Wow, really? Every time I see him he's like...fixated on you. It's weird.  _He's_ weird."

"Yeah. More like unbalanced."

He goes on with a little more momentum at her encouragement. "I mean, just today I saw him hiding a CD of all things underneath some bench. What the hell's that about?"

She can't control her face when he tells her this and she's sure it does some sort of spasm. "Which bench?"

He looks surprised at her fierce interest and says, "A bench outside the dorm building."

What. the. fuck.

"Nathan with a CD?" she confirms.

"Uh, yeah."

"Are you sure he was hiding it? Not stealing it?"

He gives a weird laugh. "Definitely. He left it there. I know because I kind of...intercepted it. I thought it'd be funny." Before she can react he continues. "But the weird thing is, this kind of looks like your other CDs. With the funny handwriting." He shows her the disc and it's titled 'Songs to Say Goodbye To.'

He keeps talking and for the first time she wishes he would just be quiet so she can think for a second.

"But, I mean, it's not what it looks like, right? I'm being crazy. There's no way you..." He can't even say it.

Nathan fucking Prescott. The asshole who sits with Victoria and makes fun of her right to her face, Nathan-I-Never-Get-In-Trouble-Cause-My-Dad-Owns-This-Place Prescott. The wealthy son of a bitch bully that terrorized people because he could.

"Max?"

It's a prank. It has to be. Of course it was, between Nathan and Victoria, they could have written a book on it.

She pulls out her phone.

_are you there?_

**yeah**

_do you know who i am?_

He doesn't respond this time and Warren is still trying to get her attention, thinking the worst as each second passes and Max doesn't answer his questions.

"I'm sorry, Warren. I have to go."

He says something to her and she doesn't hear it when she slides her chair back to leave.

_tell me right now and fucking don't lie to me_

He doesn't message back. Coward.

 

* * *

  
  
When Max sees Nathan in the hallway she feels an unfamiliar simmering in her chest. It comes on fast and she feels irrational as a surge of adrenaline forces itself through her veins as she practically stomps up to him. He wears a gray shirt over something collared and he's speaking with Victoria and all she can think about is the two of them hunched over her emails laughing with coyote grins and she snaps.

"So what was your endgame, huh? Show up at the bus station with Victoria and a camera? Make copies of all the lame stuff I said? Do you really have nothing better to do than to _torment_ everybody, are you that unhappy with yourself?"

"Whoaaa, what in the fucking shit are you saying?" Victoria cuts in. "Did the girl scout try her first drug in the parking lot this morning? Don't worry, Max, it's only one weed, just eat some chips and you'll come back to earth."

Max holds desperately onto her anger because she is dangerously close to tears and the last thing that she wants to do is let Nathan Prescott see her cry.

"What is wrong with you? What the fuck did I ever do to you?" she asks him. She wills him to yell back at her and he doesn't, he just stands there infuriatingly and she hates that he won't be the person she expects him to be in this moment.

Max wants so badly to hit him, to slap his face and it freaks her out because she has never wanted to hit anybody before. She hears people whispering to each other and snickering and she is instantly flooded with embarrassment. She's made a scene and everyone is looking at her. She's definitely going to cry now and she instantly turns away, heading for the exit. Neither of them make it to their last class.

 

* * *

  
  
Max scours through every message he's ever sent her, assigning each line to Nathan Prescott's face. She blushes a lot.

And the music! Every song sounds different now that she knows who it's from. Why on earth did he bother to send them to her?

And what about the music that she'd given _him?_ Shiiiit. What if he'd listened to it? Or worse, gave them to _Victoria?_ Her cheeks burned with shame at the thought of Victoria listening to her mixes knowing she'd made them for Nathan.

This reminds her that Warren still has that last CD. Does she even want it now? Fuck, she does. This makes her angry all over again.

 

* * *

  
  
In Max's dream Nathan has his hands on her waist. They slide up her back and it becomes an embrace. His lips hover next to her ear. _Max,_ he whispers. _Max._

He says it in such an intimate way that she feels goosebumps on the back of her neck.

Her eyes open and she's fallen asleep at her desk. Sitting up, her fingers fly to her neck and rub away goosebumps. The screen on her laptop wakes up and it's the old emails she fell asleep to. There's one thing in particular she's stuck on: **u would never take me seriously if u knew**

There is a quiet knock on her door and she turns around. It was 8:37 and already dark outside. They knock again just as quietly, but it's a little more frantic-sounding, like they're in a hurry.

When she pulls open the door she honestly hasn't even fathomed the possibility that it could be Nathan outside of her room and her eyes widen.

"What are you doing here?" she asks angrily. His shoulders are hunched as if he can make himself invisible to passersby.

"Trying to talk to you!"

"One of your worst ideas yet."

"You won't answer any of my messages."

"And you couldn't deduce that I didn't want to talk to you?"

"Just let me in. Before somebody sees."

"You are so many kinds of crazy if you think—"

"Caulfield. Please." His eyes dart down the hallway again and she relents. Just folds like a bridge made out of popsicle sticks and gum. Way to go, Max.

The door shuts behind him and oh, God, it's awkward. It's awkward so fast, like a vacuum or a black hole opened up in space to suck the air out of the room all at once. She doesn't know how to talk to Prescott in person. He's taller than her. And he smells like, well, a _guy._ He smells like a guy who smokes and can afford expensive cologne. Probably the kind that you dab behind your ears or something; the kind with a name she can't pronounce. She's never had a guy in her room to think about how he smells before and she realizes she is fully freaking out.

"Wow, that was fast. I expected you to last at least a few sentences," he says bitterly. "I haven't even started and I've already lost you."

"What is there to start? What else could you possibly have to say? You win, I'm officially mortified."

"I didn't know it was you until you dropped the CD in the hall."

"I don't believe you."

He looks angry. She figures he'll shout because whenever she sees him at school he's usually yelling at someone or something. Instead he swallows and his face scrunches a little and he can't make eye contact.

"Look, I get it. You think you spilled all this deep stuff about yourself to someone who'd use it against you. But you're not the only who's embarrassed, okay?" he snaps. "I said a lot of shit, too."

She doesn't know how to answer because she figured it was all fake. She thinks again, **u would never take me seriously if u knew** and wonders if she's reacting hastily.

"Victoria doesn't know what's going on. This wasn't some weird scheme she was a part of. Believe it or not, we've got better things to do. You can check any one of the thirty-two texts she sent me this afternoon." His tone is all snark but Max thinks it's some sort of defense thing because he's looking awfully sheepish.

Max's anger deflates just slightly but it's enough for her to sink down onto the edge of her bed. "Do you want to..." she trails off and motions to the couch. He mumbles and shuffles over to it, scrupulously sweeping his eyes over every detail in her room and she feels self-conscious as she imagines what everything might look like through his perspective. He sits and she realizes it's the most uncomfortable she's ever seen him before.

"How'd you know it was me?" he asks.

"Warren saw you hide the CD and he swiped it. He showed it to me because it looked like the others I had."

Nathan's mouth pops open and she has the urge to laugh at the surprise on his face. " _Warren_ took your CD? That asshole!"

"I can get it back," she says, and the second the words leave her mouth she wonders at her haste to assure him. He must wonder too because his eyes flick to hers and they say something she can't discern.

She thinks of all the things she knows about him and tries to reconcile it with the person sitting in front of her. However they each might have imagined their first meeting, this did not even come close.

"It was weird not messaging you for so long. I've gotten used to it," she admits.

"Me too."

It falls silent again.

"Well," he says. "That's all I've got." He sits forward like he's going to stand.

"How's it going to be at school now? Now that we both know, I mean."

"It's not going to be like anything. I won't be here."

"Why not?"

"I'm leaving town."

"If you're asking me to come with you again—"

"I'm not. That was...I didn't really mean it, it was just an impulse thing I said."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm not sure yet. But I'm packed. So I just need to buy the ticket."

"Nathan..." The name is unfamiliar on her tongue. "Can you just please tell me what's going on?"

"It's not safe here at school. It hasn't been for a long time. Someone's after me and if I stay, people will get hurt. Not just me."

"You're serious."

" _Yes._ "

"You should go to the police."

"I can't, Max. I'm in too deep, I'd go down just as hard."

Hearing him say her name sends a ripple through her. "And if you run away and leave town? How does that keep the others safe?"

"Well, I guess it doesn't."

Her eyes narrow. "How is this the best solution, then? Because it sounds like you're running to save your own ass without a care to anyone else."

The expression on his face is utterly distraught. "I tried to tell you I wasn't any good and you didn't listen."

"Don't give me that! You're just scared and it's blinded you. I know deep down that you're not that selfish."

"But I am!" he forces out. "I always have been."

"Then it's up to you to be better. You can make the right choice." She almost gets up to sit on the couch with him, but knows it will break whatever ease they've managed to build in the last ten minutes.

" _You_ can call the cops on him once I leave," he says in realization, as if the idea has just struck him from the sky.  

"Call the cops on who?" she demands exasperatedly.

"On Jefferson!" He sits forward with excitement and rakes the hair out of his eyes with shaking fingers. "I'll take off tonight and first thing in the morning you can call the cops and tell them that Jefferson killed Rachel and where she's buried and everything."

In his hastiness he speaks these terrible words far too cavalierly and her hands cover her mouth and she can't stop twin pinpricks of moisture forming in the corners of her eyes. She's seen posters for Rachel Amber _everywhere_ and whenever Nathan told her he was involved in something fucked up she'd had no idea...no idea at all.

 

* * *

  
  
Nathan finally tells her. He tells her the whole disastrous mess and how he could barely remember anything about that night. How Jefferson sedated him. It may not have been Nathan's own fingers injecting Rachel's fatal dose but he still knows in his heart that he contributed to her death just by going along with him for so long. For keeping his mouth shut.

It takes an hour and everything he's told her in the past makes so much sense. The erratic language and his clear self-loathing and depression. He folds himself in half like it's the only thing keeping his bones together.

 

* * *

  
  
"I don't want you to leave." She says it with tears in her eyes and it makes him freeze in his tracks on the way to the door.

 

* * *

  
  
Max and Nathan lie side-by-side on top of her comforter. The bed sinks from the unfamiliar weight of him. The only light is the glow from her paper lanterns strung up on the wall above them. She's stared up at her ceiling from this bed for months, and now someone else is too. He is fascinated by her polaroids. He says it lets him see the world the way that she sees it.

When he took off his shoes and jacket Max noticed how he folded it and lined his shoes next to each other by the door and she thinks it is such a strange detail about him.

The terrible things that Jefferson has been doing all this time ring sadly in the back of her mind and it's all she can do to focus on this moment right here.

"Tomorrow when we go to the police station..." Max starts. "I think...I think turning Jefferson in won't be as bad as you think."

"They're going to send me away, you know."

"They might, for a little while. Don't you want to get some help?"

"You help."

"You know what I mean."

"My dad's going to be so pissed."

"Fuck him."

"Yeah. Fuck him."

One of Nathan's mixes plays softly from her stereo. Enjoying the ambiance of soft lighting and late night music in her room with Nathan Prescott was not an activity she could have predicted herself taking part in. The more time she passes with him the easier it is to talk to him like they did in the emails.

"If you were really going to run away, why stop here first?"

"I had to explain. You thought I was messing with you and it killed me because that was the only time I had been truly honest."

"Why did you answer me back so many times in the textbook?"

He waits for a long time to answer. The song changes and he looks up at her polaroids again.

"You were just so fucking optimistic and sure of yourself," he sighs. "Like you were sure there was something decent in me without even knowing who I was. It was so presumptuous. I wanted to prove you wrong and I figured if I talked to you long enough my personality would take care of it."

His fingers trace the lines on her palm as they stare at the ceiling together.

"And then you told me to drop the act." He gives a dry laugh and the bed moves underneath him. "People say to 'be real' all the time, but they don't really mean it. When you told me to be honest, you meant it. You were probably the first person to ever tell me that and mean it. It was easier to talk through writing instead of in person."

"I can relate to that," she says. She thinks of her confidence levels when writing him the notes. "I don't really talk to people in person the way I talked to you." She supposed she'd been more honest with him as well. In reality, she was kind of shy and was surprised to find that Nathan was too in his own way.

The song changes again and Max rolls onto her side to face him and he does the same.

When he says to her, "I'm fucking scared," his voice catches roughly.

She reaches out and places a feather-light hand on his cheek. "I know you'll be able to handle this. If you can hang out with Victoria Chase every day then this should be no sweat."

It is the complete wrong thing to say at a time like this and he looks grateful for it. The inappropriate humor calms him and pulls him right back into whatever world they've carved for themselves for this one night. She feels his face pull into a smile underneath her hand.

"She's not so bad."

He passes her his phone and Victoria's message thread is open.

 **Victoria:** why didn't u tell me right away??  
**Victoria:** i know i was a mega bitch about her but if YOU thought she was cool  
**Victoria:** i mean, i wouldve made an effort

"Forgive me if I'm not completely sold."

His fingertips follow the soft underskin of her arm and his movement is so languid she wonders if he even realizes he's doing it.

"Take one last turn. Tell me something," she says.

He thinks for a minute.

"I let everyone think I have this weird niche taste in bands but really I get all my music from my older sister. And now you, I guess."

It is so late and Max hasn't had any sleep and she dissolves into exhausted laughter at this random fucking secret that fits him so well she could cry.

He smirks again and for a split second she thinks about kissing him. But this isn't the time for Max to be thinking romantic thoughts about him. By some stroke of blind luck she'd appealed to his last shred of sense to stay and help make sure that Jefferson got taken down. Things were going to be hell for Nathan for a long time between the testimonies, the lawyers, the witness statements, the mental health evaluations, and everything else that would come along with this.

The stress must have shown on her face because Nathan takes her hand and pulls her back in.  

 

* * *

  
  
Max comes with him and they sit in the parking lot outside of the precinct watching the sun come up. The morning is still blue gray. They didn't get more than a couple hours of sleep and they are bed-headed and shadow-eyed. It's cold and Nathan smokes a cigarette.

When the sky brightens into a dusty pink through the windshield, the first cars pull into the parking lot to unlock the building and start the day. Their fingers lace together.

"I guess this is it. Oh." He remembers something and digs through his center console to hand her a polaroid, of all things. It's the photo Max had taken of him at sunrise. A dark shadow with the sun behind him. "Sorry about...you know."

When Max looks at him she can barely see the rage and aggression that so often shrouded him. Instead she sees the boy who picked out songs for her and drew pictures of birds to make her happy. The boy who sticks up for his only friend. The boy who needed love and wasn't ever taught what that might look like or how to ask for it.

They climb out of the vehicle and in one instant the gravity of what's about to happen barrels into them with the harsh bite of the new morning air.

Nathan leans forward suddenly and folds himself around Max, crushing her to his chest and the hum of his heartbeat is against her ear. When he kisses her she is glad that he does it first and slides her arms around him. He rests his fingers where her hairline ends above her collarbone and she's sure the goosebumps that follow are not from the cold.

Maybe when this was all over and he came back to school they could start something new. Maybe not from the beginning, but somewhere amidst the pieces he was leaving behind.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> even though this is an AU i hold a very strong belief that it is CANON that jefferson killed rachel amber. i have a rant on this, complete with in-game evidence to support this. i'll spare you guys haha but feel free to hmu on tumblr (wasteland-frenzy) if you want my sources


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